UC-NRLF 


fPSON 


PERSE  BT  VANCE  THOMPSON 


I^ERSE  BY 

rANCE  THOMPSON 


The  Night  Watchman 
and   Other    Poems 


MITCHELL  KENNERLET 
NEW  YORK  MCMX7 


COPYRIGHT,  1915,    BY 
MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 


PRINTED    IN    AMERICA 


TO 
MY  WIFE 


343594 


DEDICATION 

Soul  of  my  soul — this  night! 

(Gray    skies    over    Brussels    and    a    wind    that 

comes  from  the  North) 
And  wild,  alert  and  bright 
My  soul  goes  forth — 
Over  the  tangled  seas  and  foam, 
Over  the  green   sea-waste,   that   lies 
Like  a  misty  dream  between  us — home 
To  you  and  you  and  your  mouth  and  eyes, 
Soul  of  my  soul,  your  eyes — 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Night  Watchman  11 

Andante  14 

Immortality  15 

1 6 

Died  17 

Daybreak  18 

Twilight  19 

21 

Dead  Virgin  24 

5/^c^  ^inrfj  25 

Walks  with  Nature  26 

Swallow  28 

Humanum   Genus  29 

Satyrs  33 

35 

Repudie  36 

TA^  C%  38 

7/z  Broadway  41 

£/>r<?  flwrf  Hereafter  42 

Symbols  44 

77^  Naked  Men  with   Torches  45 

Frustra  Signas  Lapidem  49 


Sed,  nisi  forte  tuas  melior  sonus  avocat  aures, 
Et  nostris  aliena  magis  tibi  carmina  rident, 
Vis   hodierna    tua   subigatur   pagina    lima? 

CALPURNIUS  SICULUS. 


THE  NIGHT  WATCHMA-N 

/DO  not  think  it  safe  to  sleep, 
Since  He  who  kept  the  watch  is  dead, 
And  living  things  may  prowl  abroad 
In  the  night,  with  none  to  keep 
The  door  against  them  when  they  come. 
Not  safe  .  .  .  It  is  not  safe  to  sleep, 
Since  men  have  killed  the  warder  .   .   .   God. 

Ever  He  watched  me  in  the  night; 

At  two  short  paces  from  my  bed 

He  sat,  like  one  who  keeps  the  guard, 

His  arms  upon  His  knees,  His  hands 

Clasped  on  His  sword-hilt  .   .   .   eternal  God, 

Patient,  immutable  and  dumb. 

Now,  I  am  here  alone;  the  door  is  barred, 
My  window  is  sealed  with  iron  bands, 
Yet  nightly,  things  that  are  not  dead, 
Enter  the  window  and  door  and  creep 
Over  the  cold  flags  of  the  floor.  .  .  . 

(Ay,  here  even  in  my  tower. 
Knee-deep  in  the  sands, 
Girt  round  by  the  seas  .   .   . 
By  the  sleepless,  clashing  flood  .   . 

ii 


•  THE-  NIGHT  WATCHMAN 

My  tower  of  pride  and  granite  stands; 

And  ever  about  it,  evermore, 

The  sentinel  winds  go.  .  .  .  Over  it  lower 

Clouds  of  agate  and  blood, 

Menacing ;  always  the  clouds.) 

Night  comes.  .   .  .   Oh,  in  the  night  an  hour, 
The  unavoidable  hour  in  the  night, 
When  every  man  born  of  woman,  dreams; 
And  dreaming,  he  sees  women  appear, 
Chained  together  and  dragging  shrouds, 
(Spotted  with    blood  like   a   black   sky   with 

stars) 

And  sleeping  he  groans;  and  his  bed  seems 
A  quadrature  of  molten  bars; 
And  groaning  he  wakes.   .   .   .  Lo,  in  the  dark 
ness  things 

(With  hands  and  mouths)  more  horrible  than 
dreams! 

O,  well  I  know  the  hour 

And  the  dream  I  wake  from  .  .   .  here 

In  my  violated  tower  .   .   . 

Wake  from  .  .  .   covered  with  wounds, 


12 


THE  NIGHT  WATCHMAN 

Dazed  with  the  thickness  of  fear, 
Like  a  black  smoke,  in  my  brain; 
And  a  blindness  in  my  eyes. 

(I  hear  the  familiar  sounds  .   .  . 
The  seas  at  the  knees  of  my  tower, 
The  gulls  and  their  rhythmic  wings 
And  the  cries  of  the  wind  and  rain.) 
And  here,  lo,  here,  lo,  here, 
Close  to  my  bed  the  living  things- 
Mouths  like  the  gash  of  a  spear, 
Hands,  with  fingers  and  rings,— 
In  the  darkness  the  living  things! 

Sleep?     But  men  have  slain  the  Lord, 
Even  God,  who  kept  the  watch  and  ward 
At  two  short  paces  from  my  bed, 
His  hands  clasped  on  His  mighty  sword.   . 
Sleep?     Who  dare  sleep  now  God  is  dead? 


ANDANTE 

ZADY ,  what  of  lovers  true, 
When  they  lie  down,  two  by  two, 
Under  linen  bands  and  rue, 
Dead  .  .  .  who  loved  so  truly? 

In  the  dim  earth  lie  they  low, 
Side  by  side,  and  do  not  know; 
With  the  worm  for  bed-fellow, 
Dead  .   .  .  who  loved  so  truly. 

Through  the  shroud  and  linen  band, 
They  can  touch  nor  knee  nor  hand, 
Give  nor  take  nor  understand, 
Dead  .   .  .  who  loved  so  truly. 

Over  them  the  dim  years  flow ; 
Life  calls  to  them  "Live!"  and,  lo, 
They  are  flower  and  flower  and  know  .  . 
They  who  love  so  truly. 

So  they  pass  the  cycle  through, 
Love  and  die  and  live  anew, 
Side  by  side;  for  lovers  true, 
Love  but  once:     Forever! 


IMMORTALITY 

/LAY  my  love  upon  you.  .  .  . 
You  shall  know   the  gladness  and  the 

sorrow, 

All  the  hopes  that  wait  upon  to-morrow 
And  wither  with  the  years. 

I  lay  my  love  upon  you.  .  .  . 
You  shall  'walk  in  darkness  and  in  glory; 
Men  shall  make  of  you  a  song  .   .  .  the  story 
Of  your  sad  love  and  tears. 

I  lay  my  love  upon  you.   .  .  . 
Maidens  wandering  in  moon-haunted  places, 
Shall  remember  your  love,  and  their  faces 
Be  pale  with  love  and  fears. 

I  lay  my  love  upon  you.   .  .  . 
Calm  and  mystic,  veiled  therein,  forever 
You  shall  walk  with  those  who  love,  and  never 
Shall  perish  in  the  years. 


THE  HILLS 

/SHALL  go   down  from   the  bland  and 
idle  hills 

From  the  waters  and  the  wind  in  the  pines; 
I  shall  be  he  who  doth  the  thing  he  wills, 
Heedless  of  the  portents  and  the  signs; 

Caring  no  whit  for  the  winding  of  the  road, 
Nor  for  those  that  I  pass  upon  the  way, 
Stout-cloaked  against  all  weather,  fare  abroad, 
Noting  not  if  it  be  night  or  day. 

I  shall  go  down  to  the  press  of  roofs  and  walls, 
To  the  stone  and  the  iron  and  the  brass— 
Hear  not  again  the  night-bird  when  he  calls, 
Never  lie  again  among  the  grass. 

(Never  more  dawn,  flushing   up   among  the 

trees, 

And  the  wonder  of  it  faint  on  the  lake; 
No  more  for  me — and  what  care  I  who  sees? 
What  I  leave  of  dawn  let  others  take!) 


16 


WHEN  LOVE  DIED 

KISS  your  hands,  your  garment's  hem, 
And  each  kiss  is  a  requiem: 


I  kiss  your  lips  and  morbid  eyes, 
And  each  kiss  is  a  love  that  dies: 

I  lay  my  hands  upon  your  hair 
As  though  I  laid  wan  lilies  there: 

Over  your  little  breasts  I  place 
A  white  thing  colder  than  a  cloud, 

Over  your  little  breasts  and  face 

I  lay  my  dead  love  .   .   .   like  a  shroud. 

So,  with  a  shroud  I  cover  it.  .  .  . 

The  face  wherein  love's  shame  was  writ, 

As  in  a  book  one  dare  not  read  .   .   . 
Love's  tragedy  of  thought  and  deed: 

Cover  it  close  that  none  may  see 
Dead  love  rot  into  infamy. 


DAYBREAK 

roses  and  dead  lavender  .  .  . 
The  false,  white  gown  of  woven  wool 
Fain  of  strange  lights  and  colorful, 
Beneath  the  shifty  lamp  ablur; 

A  noise  of  tangled  winds  that  cry 

At  the  pale  windows  .   .  .  all  the  high, 

Uneasy  winds  of  dawn  astir; 

The  bruised  mouth  where  the  shadows  creep, 
The  lips  all  drooping,  fain  of  sleep, 
The  hot  breath,  heavier  than  myrrh; 

And  in  the  tired  unholy  eyes 
The  weariness  of  love  that  dies, 
Love's  faintness  in  the  throat  of  her  .  .   . 
Dwarf  roses  and  dead  lavender.   .  .   . 


18 


TWILIGHT 

SHE 

' /  f  HERE  is  no  mystery,  she  saith. 

J-       Look  down  into  the  pits  of  death, 
Where  blue  sleep  lieth,  fold  on  fold; 
Look  up,  where  God's  white  pardon  waits 
Forever  at  the  open  gates; 
See,  then,  my  hair  all  gold, 
Good  for  a  man  to  kiss  and  hold 
And  play  with,  as  the  hours  spin  by.  .  .  . 

HE 

Your  hair  and  lips  and  eyes, 
Your  dark  nostalgic  eyes. 

SHE 

See,  then,  how  quick  your  kisses  dry, 
How  fast  our  vagrom  folly  flies, 
And  all  my  hair,  that  now  you  twist 
In  gyves  around  your  listless  wrist, 
Is  dying,  as  you  turn  it  .  .  .  so.  .  .  . 


TWILIGHT 

HE 

Your  dark,  incessant  eyes, 
Your  hair  and  lips  and  eyes! 


20 


NIGHT 

r j  1  HE  sky  is  made  of  silver  and  of  stone, 
J.        Glacial  in  its  quiet;  in  the  deep   of  it 

turn 

The  wind-mills  of  the  constellated  stars  .  .  . 
Broad  bars  of  gold  and  ether;  they  are  blown 
By  <winds  whose  ways  we  know  not  .   .  .   haze 
And  gold  the  wind-wings  are  that  burn 
And  turn,  grinding  His  grist.   ... 

God,  what  a  night! 

Look  up  and  see 

The  icy,  vague  immensity 

Through  which  those  starry  arms  gesticulate. 

Shadows  underneath  and  sepulchres 

And    lonely    graves    in    which    dead    women 

lie  ..." 
Shadows  and  graves,  and  one  is  hers. 

Dead  hours,   dead  kisses  and  the   dead  .  .  . 

Hist! 

The  cohorts  of  the  dead  are  up  to-night, 
Wailing  and  wandering,  their  arms  outspread, 
Under  the  windmills  of  His  universe, 
Wandering  and  wailing.  .   .   . 

21 


NIGHT 

"Ho!  ye  dead  .  .  .  <who  come  trailing 

Your  garments,  woven  of  dark  and  damp  and 

density 

Of  vaults  .  .  .  for  'whom 
Hold  ye  lean  arms  out?     Back  to  the  flame 
Or  asphodels!     Back  to  the  tomb 
Or  nothingness,  whence  ye  came! 
Why  come  ye  up  to  show  the  scars 
And  the  haggard  eyes  of  old?  .  .  . 
Down,  woman  .  .  .  go   back  .  .  .  and  sleep 

.  .  .  sleep.  .  .  ." 

She  must  be  dead.     I  saw  her  lie,  cold, 

Lean,  bloodless,  inarticulate, 

Moaning  but  faintly  .  .  .  and  once  the  child 

cried; 

So  making  very  little  noise  they  died.  .  .  . 
A  cottage  by  the  Arno-side, 
And  the  stars  came  up  on  Tuscany,  blanched, 

white, 
As  her  dead  face  was,  there.  .  .  . 

God's  might! 

The    night    is    grey    with    horror    and    with 
shame.  .  .  . 

22 


NIGHT 

See  .  .  .  the    'windmills    of    the    constellated 

stars 

Whirl  in  the  night  their  wings  of  flame  .  .  . 
Ether  and  ice,  the  bars. 


THE  DEAD  VIRGIN 

/WEEP    those    dead    lips,    white 
and  dry, 

On  'which  no  kisses  lie, 
Those  eyes  deserted  of  desire, 
And  love's  soft  fire. 

I  weep  the  folded  feet  and  hands, 

Held  fast  in  linen  bands; 

Still  heart,  cold  breasts  .   .   .  for  them 

my  dole; 
God  has  the  soul. 


THE  BLACK  WINDS 


God!     About  mine  House  to- 

night 

The  Black  Winds  coil  in  wrath, 
And  to  my  lonely  hearth,  Your  white 
Kind  Heralds  find  no  path. 

No  hands  are  laid  upon  my  hair, 
No  gentle  Angels  pass 
Across  my  floor  .   .   .   in  garments  fair, 
That  shine  and  chime  like  glass. 

I  watch  the  dying  firelight's  scroll  .   .  . 

The  flames  that  tug  and  toil; 

And  round  Mine  House  and  round  my 

Soul 
The  Black  irinds  Coil. 


WHO  WALKS  WITH  NATURE 

TT  T  E  dwell  together,  she  and  I, 
V V        In  vague  and  vast  complicity. 
I  know  the  secret  of  her  suns, 
The  mystery  of  her  moons  and  stars, 
Her  hooded  moons  and  cryptic  stars. 

The  four  winds  are  her  clarions, 

The  sheeted  dead  her  nenuphars ; 

In  her  grey  gardens  overhead 

We  walk  between  the  sheeted  dead. 

Ho!  white  they  stand,  so  white  they  are, 

White  lily  and  blanche  nenuphar. 

We  walk  among  them,  she  and  I 
In  gradual  complicity. 

The  four  winds  are  her  clarions. 
With  the  young  night  her  signal  runs 
Across  the  world  .   .  .  the  risen  dead, 
(Long  dead,  long  risen)  troop  for  us; 
Their  shrouds  have  rotted  shred  by  shred, 
Their  faded  souls  are  dolorous 
And  grey  from  going  to  and  fro 
Along  the  interminable  skies. 

26 


WHO  WALKS  WITH  NATURE 

I  meet  the  knowledge  in  their  eyes.  .  .  . 
Their  pale  eyes  full  of  irony. 
Long  dead,  long  risen;  faith  is  dead 
And  hope  has  rotted  shred  by  shred, 
And  there  is  only  irony. 

We  walk  among  them,  she  and  I, 
In  reticent  complicity. 

I  know  the  secret  of  her  suns, 
The  signal  of  her  clarions, 
The  mystery  of  her  hooded  skies 
And  of  the  hooded  dead,  whose  eyes 
Are  dark  with  thought  and  irony 
And  cynical  complicity. 

Ho!  brother  of  the  sheeted  dead, 
Who  walks  with  nature?     To  and  fro, 
Like  linen  flags,  her  signals  go, 
Beneath  which  troop  the  quick  and  dead. 


27 


THE  SWALLOW 

' i "1  HERE'S  a  swallow  flying  to  Venice, 

J.        And  sick  for  a  sight  of  the  sea, 

O,  wayfarer,  O,  swallow, 

Fly  light  and  low,  I  would  follow 

To  the  dim  blue  isles  of  Venice, 

And  the  blue,  dim  light  of  the  sea. 

I  am  sick  for  the  strange,  new  faces 
For  the  flags  and  the  ships  and  the  sea, 
For  the  new  strange  life  and  the  singing 
For  the  boatman  s  cries  and  the  ringing 
Of  bells  in  the  windy  places, 
And  the  windy  foam  on  the  sea. 

O,  swallow  flying  to  Venice, 
And  eager  for  sight  of  the  sea, 
O,  wayfarer,  O,  swallow, 
Fly  light  and  low,  I  would  follow 
To  the  dim  blue  isles  of  Venice, 
And  the  blue,  dim  sight  of  the  sea. 


28 


HUMANUM  GENUS 

(A  German  Legend.) 

r i  1  HE  eagle  in  his  eyrie 
J.       Hangs  to  hear; 

The  blue-tipped  heron  wary 
Flies  in  fear; 

The  squirrel  clings  close  and  fast 
To  tti  elm-bole ; 

And  the  sly,  red  fox  slinks  past 
To  his  hole; 

A  timorous,  silent  shadow 
Flits  the  doe; 

And  the  panting  hare  i 'the  meadow 
Crouches  low; 

The  gray  wolf  in  the  furze, 
With  sullen  eyes, 

'Mid  stones  and  bracken  burs, 
Brooding  lies; 

29 


HUMANUM  GENUS 

Wild  ducks  sail  to  the  edges 
Of  the  pool; 

The  fish  sink  into  the  sedges, 
Dark  and  cool; 

All  hushed  and  watchful  lie, 
Sullen,  subdued ; 

A  man  comes  whistling  by 
Goes  through  the  wood. 


THE  SATYRS 


"Turn   Satyri,   lasciva   cohort,  sibi   pocula   quisque 
Obvia  corripiunt:  quod  sors  dedil,  hoc  capit  usus. 
Cantharon   hie  retinet;   cornu   bibit   alter  adunco ; 
Concavat  ille  manus,  palmasque  in  pocula  vertit; 
Pronus  at  ille  lacu  bibit,  et  crepitantibus  haurit 
Musta   labris ;  alius  vocalia  cymbala   mergit; 
Atque  alius  latices  pressis  resupinus  ab  uvis 
Excipit;  at  potis  saliens  liquor  ore  resultat, 
Spumeus  inque  humeros  et  pectora  difjiuit  humor 
Omina  ludus  habet;  cantusque  chorosque  licentes, 
Et  venerem  jam   vina   movent.  .  .  ." 

CALPURNIUS. 


THE  SATYRS 

"   IT)  RAY,   shall   we   walk    abroad,   Mar- 

JL  quise? 

The  park  is  very  still  to-night, 
Brown  twilight  broods  among  the  trees, 
There  are  no  censuring  stars  alight." 

"Ho  .  .  .  yonder!" 

"Gently,  knave,  I  say! 
I  crave  your  highness'  pardon   .   .   .   they 
Are  rakish,  harmless  friends  of  mine 
Begging  me  taste  their  skin  of  wine, 
Three  satyrs,  humble  friends,  Marquise, 
With  whom  .  .  ." 

"They  frightened  me  ...  at  first" 

"First  sight,  madame,  is  always  worst" 
"And  will  they  dance  for  me,  your  friends?" 
"Or  die,  Marquise,  to  make  amends" 
"One  tilts  a  skin  of  wine  and  stains 
His  hollow  face  and  scanty  beard; 
One  shakes  a  branch" 

'"The  rascal  feigns 
That  he  is  Lydian  Hercules; 
But  see  his  eye.   .  .    " 

"Monsieur,  he  leered!" 

33 


THE  SATYRS 

"And  yonder  on  the  misty  ground 
Squats  one  who  blows  a  rustic  pipe; 
See  the  knave's  crooked  fingers  gripe 
The  slender  reed  .   .  .  and  hark,  the  sound! 
A  mad,  green  music,  eh,  Marquise? 
Dying  among  the  somber  trees." 

"Their  dance,  Monsieur?" 

"Dance,  satyrs,  dance! 
Ho!  how  the  goat-hoofed  rascals  prance, 
The  dead  leaves  creaking  out  a  tune." 
"Monsieur,     O,     stop     them!     See  .   .  .  the 
moon!" 


34 


PAN 

71 /f  AN,  'twas  a  satyr,  hoof,  horn  and  hide; 
J-VJL      I  came  upon  him  alone  one  night 
In  a  greenish  wood;  he  was  howling  tight, 
With  a  tun  of  wine  by  his  side.   .   .  . 

Man!  an  oaken  cask  of  golden  wine! 
"Sit  down,"  says  the  satyr,  "cheek  by  jowl, 
Here's  a  shard  to  drink  from,  yours  and  mine, 
And  we'll  look  at  the  moon  and  howl." 

We  sat  through  the  waste  of  useless  hours 
In  the  greenish  wood  at  night. 
His  head  was  crowned  with  the  gold  of  flow 
ers, 
And  he  sang  to  the  pale  moonlight. 

Man,  'twas  a  satyr!     For  far  and  wide 

I  travel  the  woods  by  day  and  night 

But  I  find   him    not.  .  .   .  He   was   howling 

tight 
With  a  tun  of  wine  by  his  side. 


35 


REPUDIE 

7OU  'will  not  have  my  love,  being  tired  of 
its  lips 
And  adoration?     W ell,  let  it  go  down  to 

the  ships 

That  sail  toward  the  hazard  of  capes  and  curl 
ing  seas 

And  long  lascivious  hills;  go  forth  .  .  .  and 
dwell  with  these. 

Let  it  go  forth  this  love  of  mine, 
And  wet  its  mouth  with  lethal  wine, 
And  gay  and  mad  and  drunk  and  red, 
Ride  down  the  highway  of  the  dead ; 
On  some  lean  horse  of  soot  and  fire, 
Spur  down  life's  road  of  rust  and  mire 
And  trampled  lust  and  black  desire.   .   .   . 
Let  it  ride  forth  this  love  of  mine. 

You  will  not  keep  my  love  nor  house  it  warm 
From  the  Novembral  nights  and  winter  storm; 
Let  it  fare  forth,  with  wet,  unseeing  eyes, 
And  find  the  midnight  faces  and  the  lips 
That  murder  love  with  kisses  till  He  dies  .  .  . 
That  suck  his  mouth  until  his  faint  life  drips 
Away  in  sweat  and  acid,  gasp  and  moan. 

36 


REPUDIE 

You    will    not    have    my    love;    and    that    is 

best:  .  .  . 
For  if  your  soul  was  bruised  with  my  bitter 

cries, 

Lo,  I  have  sucked  a  bitter,  bitter  breast 
And  drunk  the  secret  of  unholy  eyes! 

You  will  not  have  my  love;  let  it  be  so.   .   .   . 
What  would  you  with  it?     For  it  was  a  cry 
And  a  turmoil  in  the  night.     Clashing  spears 
And  clang  of  iron  swords  were  in  my  ears; 
And  you,  a  red  prey,  lank  of  limb  and  thigh, 
Raped  from  a  battlefield  to  love  .   .   .  and  die, 
Your  mouth  gagged  with   weeds  and  spittle 
and  mud. 

You  will  not  have  my  love,  although  you  know 
The  hidden  beauty  of  my  lust  and  the  slow 
Secret    kisses  .   .   .  when    the    song    wakes    in 
your  blood.  .  .  . 

She  will  not  have   us,  Love  .   .   .  fare  forth 
and  go. 


37 


THE  CITY 

'  j  *  HE  city  is  of  charcoal  and  of  blood, 
J.        Of  stars  and  night,  of  gilt  and  ebony. 

Electric  bulbs  pour  down  a  flood 

Of  pale  and  frozen  mystery— 

The  riddle  of  the  white  poles — upon  the  town 

Making  it  wonderful. 

A  girl  walks  there  in  black. 

On   her  hat  the  white  flare  of  a  plume,  all 

white, 

The  white  of  her  throat  as  she  sways  well  back, 
The  lift  of  her  gown- 
Brightly  she  laughs  and  takes  the  light— 
("For  whom,"  I  whisper,  "God,  for  whom?") 

This  night,  all  night,  the  lean  dogs  of  desire 
Have  bayed  upon  my  track, 
Yelping,  keen  of  scent,  afire 
To  pull  me  down — there 
In  the  flare  of  the  town. 

A  girl  walks  there  in  black. 

38 


THE  CITY 

"Hist!  you  with  the  ruddled  cheek 

And  the  white-plumed  hat! 

Toward  what  defiled  paradise  walk  you, 
child? 

What  feverish  Walhalla  tempts  you  (speak!), 

Where  the  wild  horses'  ribs  are  crumpled 

Under  the  temptuous  thighs  of  goddesses, 

Walhalla!     Hist!  girl  in  black,  toward  what? 

Wan  nights  and  broken  dawns?  The  rum 
pled 

Bed-linen  and  torn  boddices. 

To  that?" 

A  girl  walks  there  in  black:  saying — 

"The  South  wind  is  my  breath 
My  eyes  are  the  sea, 
I  am  sweet  as  poison  and  death 
And  all  men  come  to  me. 

"My  house  is  built  of  dusk 
And  starlight;  and  within 
There  is  a  cloud  of  musk 
And  a  taper  shines  small  and  thin. 


39 


THE  CITY 

"Those  who  come  to  me  there, 
Weave  with  me,  thread  and  thread, 
The  garments  I  shall  wear 
When  I  rise  with  the  dead. 

"Of  shame  and  love  and  doom 
Of  bruise  and  cry  and  kiss, 
Purple  and  black  on  the  loom 
Is  the  robe  we  weave  amiss. 

"My  house  is  built  of  mist 
And  moonlight;  come — within 
We  shall  sit  wan  and  kissed, 
Weaving  the  shroud  of  sin!' 

("For  whom,''  I  whisper,  "dear,  for  whom, 
Shall  the  shroud  be  woven?") 

Laughter  and  myrrh 
Her  mouth  is,  the  flower  mouth  of  her; 
And  her  eyes  are  the  sea;  and  life 
In  her  young  body  urges  and  thrills; 
Saying :     "I  wait  for  him  with  the  knife, 
The  sudden  man — who  kills." 


40 


IN  BROADWAY 

/WALK  in  Broadway  to  and  fro 
With  the  taciturn  ghost  of  Edgar  Poe. 
Girls  idle  for  us  when  the  lights 
Are  red  on  the  pavements  there  o'  nights. 
Girls  sidle  with  strenuous  eyes  for  us, 
With  gestures  urgent  and  amorous; 
But  we  mock  them,  pacing  to  and  fro— 
I  and  the  ghost  of  Edgar  Poe. 

"Dear  ghost/'  I  say  to  him,  "to  and  fro 
As  you  walked  in  Broadway  long  ago 
Did  the  small  girls  idle  for  you  and  cry?" 
"Ho!  the  black  stars  swung  in  a  yellow  sky 
One  night,  one  night — and  a  woman  came 
Out  of  a  harem  of  wind-blown  flame ; 
But  the  lips  that  she  laid  on  mine  were  snow- 
Bitter  as  ice,"  says  the  ghost  of  Poe. 

I  make  the  sign  of  the  cross. 


HERE  AND  HEREAFTER 

r j  J HE  woman  was  dead;  and  her  body  lay 
JL       Enshrouded,  coffined  and  in  the  clay, 
A  small,  blonde  body  kissed  over  much- 
It  ripened,  rotted  and  fell  at  a  touch. 
But  her  small,  blonde  soul  was  not  afraid 
To  go  thus  naked,  and,  undismayed, 
It  walked  abroad  in  the  evening  air, 
Along  the  streets  where  the  night-lamps  flare, 
Idling  strenuously  there. 

Her  small,  blonde  soul  minced  up  and  down 

The  flippant  streets  of  the  gas-lit  town; 

Its  pale  eyes  ogled  to  left  and  right, 

Its  smile  was  lambent,  teasing  and  bright— 

Pst!  Pst!     The  lips  of  it  framed  it  again 

The  cooing,  sibilant  call  to  men. 

Pst!  Pst!     And  she  lounged  along  Broadway, 

Through  yellow  lights  and  shadows  gray, 

Idling,  strenuously  gay. 

The  small,  blonde  soul  of  her  paused  before 
A  house  with  the  black  crepe  on  the  door. 
There  stood  the  soul  of  a  man  new-dead. 
Pst!  Pst!     His  dazed  soul  turned  its  head, 


HERE  AND  HEREAFTER 

And  the  eyes  went  hot  and  the  lips  laughed, 

'Well? 
Lead  the  way!'     And  she  led  his  soul  to  hell. 

Pst!  Pst!     At  night  where  the  late  lamps  glow, 
The  small,  blonde  form  loiters  to  and  fro, 
Idling,  strenuously  slow. 


SYMBOLS 

71  /f  Y  palace  is  of  smoke  and  rain, 
J.  K£      And  from  the  window  I  look  forth 
And  see  a  blurred,  tumultuous  train 
Glide  through  a  tunnel  to  the  North, 
Beaconed  by  lantern-lights  of  blood. 

My  palace  is  of  storm  and  flood, 
And  through  the  window-panes  I  see 
The  white  stars  miming  oracles 
To  the  dead  sand  and  sleeping  sun- 
Stars  sign  and  cry  aloud  like  bells. 

My  palace  is  of  black  basalt, 

The  stars  which  mimed  in  the  blue  vault 

Have  passed  with  dark,  averted  cowls. 

I  see  the  city's  fitful  light 

(Lamps  winking  like  the  eyes  of  owls) 

Men,  mad  with  dreams,  shout  to  the  night. 


44 


THE  NAKED  MEN  WITH  TORCHES 

rri  O   the  sordid  horizon   the  fields  stretch 
J.  brown, 

Sterile   and  sere;   rimmed — as    the   sun   goes 

down  — 
With   copper  and  smoke;  naked  of  fruit  or 

grain; 

Only  the  evil  weeds  lift  high  in  the  plain 
Their  chalices  of  poison— 

The  pastures  are  dead; 

The  trees  are  rotting  and  the  birds  have  fled; 
But  the  desultory  suave  serpents  slide,  pass 
Through  the  dwarf  jungles  of  the  tarnished 

grass; 
And   dazed   and    dour   the    undying   peasant 

stands, 
The  mock  and  martyr  of  his  wasted  lands. 

In  the  huge  cities  gloom  palaces  and  gaols; 
Through  red-lit  streets  wanton  the  avid  girls, 
Silky  and  perfumed,  carbuncled  with  pearls, 
T he  girls! 

Go  wantoning  prince  and  flute-player, 
Obscene  with  drunkenness,  with  filleted  hair, 
Carolling  shrill  songs  to  their  derisive  Baals— 


45 


THE  NAKED  MEN  WITH  TORCHES 

Princes  and  flute-players,  trilling  silver  lauds 

To  the  gods,  the  old  humiliated  gods; 

And  the  avid  girls- 
Over  the  roofs  and  towers, 

Curtaining  palaces  and  gaols,  there  lowers 

Monstrous,  nocturnal,  the  smoke;  beneath  it 
whirr 

The  iron  wheels  that  birr 

An  iron  monotone  in  the  iron  hours; 

And  gaunt  slaves  turn  the  wheels— 

Ho!  up  they  sweep, 

Haggard  and  mad  and  stark,  the  slaves  o'  the 
wheel, 

With  wolfish  sickles  anhungered  to  reap 

In  the  last  red  harvest  of  blood  and  steel:— 

The  naked  men  with  torches! 

Up  they  stream, 

Gaunt,  the  Ten-To-One,  claiming  their  her 
itage, 

Avid    for    girls    and    flute-players — and    the 
Dream! 

Avid  for  drunkenness  and  surfeit  and  lust, 

The  naked  fellows  with  sickles!  parched  with 
rage 


THE  NAKED  MEN  WITH  TORCHES 

And  lean  from  dining  on  the  winnowed  dust. 
Up!  Up!  old  Ten-To-One!     Who'll  say  you 

nay? 
Take  what  you  will!     Have  yon  fat  priest  to 

pray, 

Rhetors  of  science  to  scratch  your  hairy  loins, 
Girls,  silky  and  obscene,  to  tumble  and  play 
And  dope  you  with  kisses,  for  a  jink  o'  coins; 
Summon  prince  and  flute-player  for  your  idle 

hours, 

Paphian  music  and  bawdy  songs  and  flowers, 
Stuck  in  your  grimy  hair! 

Take  what  you  will, 
Old  Yahoo!     And  who  stops  you,  then?     Go, 

swill 

At  the  Madeira,  lick  the  clotted  cream; 
Souse  you  in  ease  or  cruelty,  good  or  ill, 
Capture    your    harlot,    flute-player — and    the 

Dream! 
Are  you  sated,  Satyr? 

You  there  with  the  torches! 
Then  forth  with  you  from  palaces  and  porches, 
Into  the  fields  and  whistle  you  back  the 

birds — 


47 


THE  NAKED  MEN  WITH  TORCHES 

Out  of  the  obscure  caves  and  cathedral  woods 
And  the  augural  night— 

Hist!  the  blue  flight  of  birds! 
Lift  your  head,  gaunt  fellow,  hear  the  song 

and  the  words 
And   the   lilt  and  glamour   of   old  primeval 

moods, 
And  clangor  of  love  in  the  air — 

And  there 

Dull  with  toil  of  the  soil  your  brother  stands, 
The  eternal  peasant  with  the  empty  hands, 
Who  stares  at  the  old  earth  and  broods— 

And  broods. 


FRUSTRA  SIGN  AS  LAPIDEM 

A  LONG  the  level  sea  all  night 
^JL    The  shining  squadrons  pass, 
Their    sandalled    steps    ring    sharp    and 

slight, 

As  though  they  marched  on  glass, 
Moonlit,  starlit,  the  level  sea 
Is  quiet  as  a  road, 
And  all  my  hopes  troop  lustily 
To  storm  the  hold  of  God. 

Afar  it  lies,  and  very  far, 

Across  the  level  sea, 

But  they  shall  know  it  by  the  star 

God's  knave  swings  faithfully. 

All  night  they  march,  till  dawn  is  come, 

And  they  can  see  the  tower, 

And  hear  the  rolling  of  the  drum 

That  marks  the  morning  hour. 

Then  up  the  sun  comes,  red  and  broad 

And  insolent  is  he; 

They  cannot  see  the  tower  of  God, 

He  shines  so  fearfully. 

The  tepid  sea  runs  gray  and  high 


49 


FRUSTRA  SIGN  AS  LAPIDEM 

And  all  my  hopes  troop  home, 
For  they  do  fear  the  blazing  sky 
And  dread  the  running  foam. 

But  in  the  time  <when  nights  are  long, 
And  dawn  is  loth  and  late, 
With  gonfalon  and  horn  and  song 
They  shall  march  to  the  gate; 
Across  a  sea  that  rings  like  glass 
And  level  as  a  road, 
The  squadrons  of  my  hopes  shall  pass 
And  storm  the  hold  of  God. 


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